In a house on a hill
by sxcond
Summary: QDLC finals round 1. Really this round is so awesome. Totally not unnecessarily inconveinient or complicated.


A/N:

Falmouth Falcons Chaser 1

Main prompt: An example of juxtaposition AND a flashback/forward scene

Pairing prompt: Tomione (Tom Riddle/Hermione)

Chaser Prompts:

#1 (dialogue) "We buy one every month"  
#12 (colour) mulberry  
#13 (word) tradition

I put several examples of juxtaposition (just in case some of them don't actually, well, count as juxtaposition) but I only underlined the most obvious one.

Words: 2651

* * *

In a house on a hill, lived a man and a woman.

* * *

 **TOM / NOW**

Sometimes, Tom wondered what his Death Eaters would think of him now. This strange, domestic, tea-making man that he had become. Would they be impressed by his status as the Minister of Magic's husband? Disappointed, that he had not usurped that position and claimed it as his own? He wished it was the former. The latter would be fine as well, but he knew there had only ever been one possibility: abject disgust.

Because now, he had become the sort of man who made tea for and love to a Mudblood. _Mudbloods_ would be fine. He would be disparaged, disdained, for being not only promiscuous but a blood-traitor. However, because he was a man, and in the 1940s it was a man's world first and foremost, he would be congratulated for bagging so many women. respected. Unlike if he'd remained faithful to only one, because fidelity meant that he respected his partner; and to his Death Eaters, Mudbloods should only ever be viewed as dirt.

Falling in love with a Mudblood, to his Death Eaters, was a crime as sordid and terrible as murder.

He had done both.

He was a terrible, terrible man.

* * *

 **/ BEFORE**

Out of curiosity, he'd once touched a giant hourglass. His hand left the dusty glass after several seconds. Then there was a flash of light, and he was no longer in an Egyptian pyramid. He'd crossed the vast expanse of space, and entered a parallel universe that was just slightly faster in time.

* * *

Tom Riddle arrived in the year 2000, on January first, at exactly twelve midnight. Behind him was an exact copy of the hourglass.

It was the turn of the century of a parallel universe, though Tom had not known it yet. He had not known anything then, when he was still young, ambitious, and ignorant. It was this ignorance, this self-perceived cleverness and arrogance that had led him to introduce himself as Marvolo to the first Unspeakable that found him.

Hermione Granger was not amused.

She stunned him.

* * *

He woke up someplace dark and cramped, sometime later. He felt around and discovered himself to be trapped with several bottle-like objects and many, many, books.

Confident in his ability to charm his way out of the situation, he called out, "Hello?"

He heard a zipping noise, and was unceremoniously turned upside down. Tom tumbled out of the Extendable Bag, onto soft, violet carpeting, and instantly stood, reaching for his wand.

"It's not there."

Tom looked up. It was that female Unspeakable again. He was beginning to hate her. Once he squeezed her dry of information, perhaps, he would use her death to make his next Horcrux.

"Pardon me?" said Tom with a disarming smile. He did not try to skim her mind. It was highly likely that she was an accomplished Occlumens, as most Unspeakables like himself were.

"Your wand. I took it. You won't find it anywhere on your person," she declared, chin high with blatant triumph.

A pureblood, for sure.

"Well then, may I have it back?"

"No."

Tom smiled. His index finger twitched and drew the lightning-bolt wand movement for the _Avada Kedavra_ spell on his pants. "May I inquire why?" he asked politely.

"Yes," she spat, a hot, outraged look full of hatred seeping into her expression. "Because you murdered Moaning Myrtle."

Tom suddenly felt very cold. That, and murderous. "That's a very serious accusation, Miss…?" he began, faux-indignant.

The Unspeakable did not offer her name. He looked around, and found it labelled on the bag she'd used to kidnap him: _Hermione Granger._

"Miss Granger," he continued. It was not a pureblood surname that he recognised, but perhaps she had Portkeyed him to America.

She tensed, shock written over her features.

"How—" she started, before relaxing as she gazed past him at her bag. "Oh, I see. Very clever."

Tom Riddle smiled.

She stunned him.

* * *

It was dark again. He awoke tied to a chair and blindfolded.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-four," he lied. He was twenty-six.

He heard a sharp inhale, a mumble—"looks so young...five people"—and was promptly stunned again.

Five people dead at his hands. How did she find out? And, if he deduced right, she'd thought from his youthful appearance that it had only been Myrtle.

Either way, she had to die.

* * *

The next time he awoke, he cast out his mind into hers. He heard a short, stifled scream.

As he'd thought, she had an Occlumens barrier. It was a black void that stretched past where his mind's eye could see. He probed it, gently at first. It was like knocking on granite. Nevertheless, he was confident he could break it.

Tom concentrated, hardening his mind. He recalled his ambition, his will, and his desire to live. He sharpened it with focus, till it was a thin, barely visible needle-point, and brought it down on the barrier.

There were two shattering sounds. One when her barrier broke, and one when his. Tom gasped, feeling something foreign reach deep inside him.

He divided his focus onto his barrier and found a thin Legilimens probe, not unlike his own, extending into it. It was too late to repair the barrier. Once it broke, hours, on average, were required to fix it. He needed only several minutes. But that, he did not have.

Anger scorched coldly inside him. It was that sensation when you grabbed onto ice for too long and began to feel your skin burn.

"Two can play this game," he spat, and launched himself into her mind, in search of ways to crush it.

He rifled through her memories—suburban household, Muggle family—Hogwarts, wonder, so much magic and delight—ostracisation—two boys, a troll—boring—he skipped several years—fifth year: fear, ambition, and a name; _Voldemort_ —he carried on, intrigued—his Horcruxes were destroyed, one by one— _Mudblood_ —a kiss—the battle—he died.

Tom swallowed in shock. Voldemort had died, so easily—pathetically—and to his own _Avada Kedavra_ of all things.

Tom compartmentalised his own death and moved on, despite himself. The current objective had to be reached, no matter what distressing delusions he saw. He would break her. Behind him, he felt her ransack his memories. He felt her disgusting pity. He probed again, with greater fervour.

Seventh year—her ambition to become the Minister of Magic—an on-off relationship—insecurities—not pretty, not smart enough, boring, a bookworm—this he could use—hired as an Unspeakable—finding himself sprawled on the ground in the time chamber.

Tom noted that he was no longer in the 20th century.

Eventually, the assault on his mind ended.

She stunned him.

* * *

When he next woke, his new accommodations were drastically more comfortable than his previous ones. He heard a rustle beside the bed. He pretended to be asleep.

Hermione Granger frightened him. She knew things about him that she should not, as if she had lived as him. She sympathised with him, possessed ambition and a thirst for both knowledge and power that rivalled his own. A past of being wrongfully disrespected by housemates that are so obviously inferior to her. Charming, clever, attractive, intelligent, powerful, and ambitious.

 _Hermione._ She had a name that rang of greatness and destiny.

It was like looking into a mirror.

He could no longer think of killing her. Her throat would become his, her long, slender hands turning into his spidery ones. Tom nearly shuddered. It would be like killing himself.

* * *

From the moment he learned that he was different, special, Tom had loved no one but himself. He wasn't certain if he could. Everyone else was an alien species, incapable of understanding him, incapable of measuring up to him. Inferior.

Perhaps this was why he had fallen in love with Hermione Granger. She was not only of the same species, but of the same person. She was a reflection of himself, but, somehow, better. She was what he wished to become. Someone revered, powerful, loved and feared—no— _respected_ in equal measure.

She was what he wanted to emerge as after metamorphosis: Perfection.

She was Lord Voldemort, his greatest fantasy and love. Though she had aided in murdering the original, his first love and dream, he could not bring himself to hate her. It was inconceivable; it would be like hating himself. Besides, she had replaced that goal with something better: herself, as he would if he were her.

She was him and he was her.

This was why he loved her.

Years later, he was neither young, nor ambitious. But at least he had her to live vicariously through, when she climbed the ranks from Unspeakable to Minister of Magic.

* * *

In a house on a hill, lived a powerful woman who had fallen in love with a secret.

* * *

 **HERMIONE / NOW**

It was terrible, living with a secret. She hadn't known how difficult it would be at that time. Or how easy.

It was easy to keep it. It'd been easy to fall in love with Tom. He was perfection personified, and he understood her so well. They shared so many likes and dislikes and habits, and being with him wiped away all her insecurities. With him, she was no longer a bookworm. She was intelligent. He'd complimented her with that word, once, as if that quality was a rare gem that only she possessed. Now that she thought about it, that day when he did so seemed to be the moment he stopped hating her.

Every moment with him was bliss.

Every moment away was a singular agony.

Why? Because. She. Could. Not. Stop. Feeling. Guilty.

This was the difficult part: the guilt and shame.

No matter how charming he seemed, and how charmed she was, Tom was still a serial killer, and she, the Minister of Magic. She had a duty to uphold, and here she was; harbouring a serial killer, playing house while his victims languished without justice.

The guilt ate at her. She couldn't tell anyone, not Harry, not Ron. They would want him executed because the wounds he had carved in them were far, far, deeper than hers. Her _Mudblood_ was superficial and had scarred a long time ago. Sometimes, it even made her laugh. Lord Voldemort is dating a Mudblood. Ha. Eat that, Bellatrix.

Harry and Ron, though—Lord Voldemort had killed people they loved. Sirius and Fred. They would never forgive Tom. They would never forgive her for consorting with him.

Hermione knew that the right thing to do was to turn him over to the authorities. The only problem: she loved him. So she didn't.

She supposed she was a little like Tom in that she was too selfish to do the right thing. Or maybe, he had changed her to be this way.

* * *

Hermione returned home to find Tom making tea. Earl Grey, she guessed. She sat down beside him and huffed.

"Rufus Fudge again?" Tom said with a quirk of his eyebrows.

"Yeah." Hermione frowned. "He's such an—ugh!" She threw her hands to the air. "Honestly, if his father hadn't been Minister, I would demote him to a clerk."

"Nepotism at work, I suppose." Tom poured her a cup of tea.

She thanked him and downed it like alcohol. Outside the window, the sky was a pale mulberry shade. Even so, the sun was shining strong. Everything seemed brighter, somehow; lovelier, when you've found your soul-mate. She hadn't realised how lonely she was until she met Tom. Alone in her research, alone at home. Harry and Ron were great friends, of course, but they were different from her.

"Have you had dinner?" Tom asked.

"Yes, with Ron and Harry."

His lips curled. Tom had opinions about them. Very unflattering ones. It was the main subject of argument for them, when they weren't debating on Nietzsche and other philosophers and their ideologies.

Then again, Tom didn't think much of anyone who wasn't himself or her. It was annoying at times, but, like everything else about him, she loved it. He made her feel so special.

"Them again?"

"We had to visit the florist's. Funeral bouquets. We buy one every month."

Tom's lips thinned. His handsome, aristocratic features twisted. To her surprise, Hermione had long ago learnt that any reference to Lord Voldemort and the chaos and death he had wrought did not bring pleasure to Tom. In fact, it was the opposite. He'd once confessed that looking at Voldemort and his senseless, stupid, wanton destruction made him feel unbearably disgusted.

Lord Voldemort was not Tom. Lord Voldemort was not elegance and intelligence and strength. He was madness and senseless brutality. He had power, certainly, but lacked the class to use it with precision. In short, to Tom, Lord Voldemort was a disappointment. A stain on his history best left forgotten.

* * *

 **TOM / NOW**

The overhead light was bright.

"Good night, Hermione. _J'adore_ ," he murmured, as was tradition. Somehow, it was easier to say 'I love you' in French. It was fewer in syllables, and lacked the weight of those three words. It didn't feel as if he was truly giving power away to someone else. Because that's what love was.

"Good night, Tom. I love you too," Hermione replied in turn. " _Nox."_

The room was engulfed by darkness.

Tom waited until her breathing evened out and she was surely sound asleep.

" _Hermione,_ " he whispered. It was a lovely name. She was lovely.

In the dark, under the weak glow of moonlight, she looked pretty and vicious. A grim, fairytale creature from a dream. Her thick, brown hair was haphazardly splayed on the pillow, like ancient roots expanding, absorbing territory. Her angular jaw lay hidden in the shadows. When juxtaposed to the shining silk pillow, it appeared to be a knife on the verge of cutting ivory skin.

Tom crept out of bed and reached for the wand on her nightstand. They were so alike, that the wand responded with a comfortable chilliness, as if it was his own yew one. Then he turned it towards her and muttered, " _Confundus._ You will continue to love me until the day you die. You will continue to inform me of everything that transpires while you work towards blood equality."

After the deed was done, he kissed her on the lips. It was his own tradition. He was a stranger in a strange land far from his own time—perhaps, from his own universe. Who was to say that she wouldn't grow bored of him one day like all couples eventually do?

 _(He had learnt from his mother's mistake.)_

Now, they would be together forever—he and that dream he so loved and so yearned to become. Not Tom and Voldemort, an old, rusted name that recalled days of power and fear and madness, but Tom and Hermione, the Minister of Magic who loved and was loved by the people.

Love was its own sort of power, he knew now.

Tom was no longer young, nor ambitious. But at least he had her to live vicariously through.

* * *

In a house on a hill, lived a lost little boy and his beautiful Mirror of Erised.


End file.
